


Along the Road

by enigma731



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: 5 + 1, Developing Relationship, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-05
Updated: 2014-01-05
Packaged: 2018-01-07 15:19:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1121412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enigma731/pseuds/enigma731
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint has an affinity for tacky airport souvenirs and candy with loud wrappers. Especially when they come with the added bonus of driving Natasha crazy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Along the Road

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AlliSnow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlliSnow/gifts).



> Thanks to [samalander](http://archiveofourown.org/users/samalander/pseuds/samalander/works), [sugarfey](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sugarfey/pseuds/sugarfey/works), and [frea_o](http://archiveofourown.org/users/frea_o/pseuds/frea_o/works) for beta and cheerleading. 
> 
>  
> 
>   
> Banner by [frea_o](http://archiveofourown.org/users/frea_o/pseuds/frea_o/works)

_And I slept on the ocean last night_  
I could see you all, and you all were dancing sideways  
Your feet stuck to the skies  
And I could see the airplanes dance behind your eyes  
And I was glad I found the time  
([X)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X2iHpWHrZY4)

1.

It starts as her mistake, Natasha thinks.

She’s barely six months outside of the Red Room, two days past Fury’s approval of a trial field mission, and still only half sure what she’s doing trying to play for the good guys at all. 

The pre-holiday airport chaos of LaGuardia grates on her nerves in a way she hasn’t thought possible, reminding her how relatively isolated she’s been for the past few months as the aggressive press of the crowd registers potential threats on all sides. She’s been itching to get off base, to get back in the field and put her skills to use on something aside from endless training drills, but being here suddenly reminds her of the people still out there somewhere with a claim on her life. 

“Hey,” Clint says in her ear, making her jump. He takes advantage of their suburban couple cover and drops an arm casually around her shoulders, lowering his voice as he leans in. “Not to criticize your acting skills--because believe me, I know that would get me gravely injured--but you might wanna tone down the surveillance by, like, at least five notches. Right now you look like a spy who stole a soccer mom’s clothes.”

“If there’s anyone here paying that much attention to who I am, S.H.I.E.L.D.’s little costume isn’t going to help.” Natasha shoots him a look, silently cursing the fact that they have to fly commercial at all, that even her fancy new government permits have only allowed her to hold on to one of her guns, and that her bags will be utterly vulnerable to tampering while they’re out of her sight. 

“Yeah,” says Clint, looking utterly unaffected both by that possibility and by the daggers she’s still glaring in his direction. “But that’s why you’ve got me to watch your back.”

“Oh _good_ ,” she says sourly, and for a moment she thinks she might see a glimmer of actual hurt in his eyes, not that she has time to be concerned with it right now. She’s never had a partner before, still isn’t sure what to make of Clint and his stubborn insistence on expressing something like friendship toward her. She still isn’t sure whether she’ll ever allow herself to think of him as anything other than a liability. And still, if she lets herself acknowledge it, there’s an undeniable part of her that likes having him around, likes his irreverent humor and quiet disregard for the rules.

He shrugs, apparently deciding not to let her barb sink too deep after all. Still, he lets his arm drop away from her shoulders, falling into step beside her instead.

For a moment Natasha thinks she should say something else, not quite an apology--she is not going to apologize for holding to the caution that’s kept her alive thus far--but something resembling a truce, a hook to make sure his foolish loyalty to her is preserved. She doesn’t need to make an enemy of him, after all.

But she doesn’t get a chance to say anything else, because their gate comes up on her right as they turn a corner, and her attention is caught by the little souvenir shop across from the seating area. “I <3 NY,” the neon letters above the entrance scream, as if the sign wants to be outside in downtown rather than inside the crowded airport. She doesn’t blame it, she thinks. 

“See something you like?” asks Clint, his voice in her ear making her jump again. 

She takes in the rows of garish magnets, the t-shirts with large print and red hearts. There’s a shelf filled with furry plush apples and taxi cabs, and in front of that a window display where bobblehead figurines of celebrities nod cheerfully at her, blissfully unaware that she’s currently fantasizing about smashing every last one of them to cheap colorful smithereens. 

“No,” she tells Clint disdainfully. “I don’t know who would lack enough taste to shop _there._ ”

He shrugs again. “ _I_ am going _there_ to buy a snack.”

Natasha raises an eyebrow. “Because what this delightful experience really needs is you on a sugar high.”

“Exactly!” he says enthusiastically, and disappears into the shop.

They’ve arrive intentionally close to takeoff, not much time to spend sitting out in the open at the gate. Clint is still gone when the jetway doors open, and Natasha boards the plane alone, trying to decide whether she’ll be concerned or relieved if he doesn’t make it on at all. He does, though, a plastic bag with the words “thank you” and a now-familiar red heart clutched in his hands as he drops into the seat beside her.

“Hi,” he says cheerfully. “Thanks for waiting for me.”

She shrugs. “You want to be my partner, you have to keep up.”

“Not how partnership works, Nat,” Clint says evenly, and pulls a sleeve of Starburst candies out of his bag, the paper rustling as he tears it open, unwraps two and pops them both into his mouth. 

Natasha sighs and momentarily considers killing him if he intends to spend the entire flight eating loud little packets of sugar. Clint is silent--save for the wrappers--through the monotonous flight safety presentation, doesn’t flinch when the plane’s wheels leave the tarmac and the landing gear _thunks_ as it retracts. 

“Got you a present,” he says, when the candy is half gone and the plane’s begun to level out. 

Natasha stares at him as he hands her the bag from the shop. For a moment she just holds it in her lap, unsure of how to react.

“Open it,” he urges. “It’s not going to bite you.”

She gives him another look but does as she’s told, slipping her hand inside the bag and pulling out a small box. Nodding up at her is a tiny green Statue of Liberty, its bobblehead nearly large enough to make it an alien. Natasha chokes a little despite herself, the sheer absurdity of this situation bringing a laugh bubbling up in the back of her throat, threatening to escape. 

“Congratulations,” says Clint, tapping the figurine on the top of her head so that she starts nodding comically fast. “Now you’re a real American. It’s a question on the citizenship exam, you know. ‘Where do you keep your bobblehead Lady Liberty, Ms. Romanoff?’”

“I am going to hurt you,” she grates out, struggling to keep her voice even.

“Excellent,” says Clint, and goes back to his candy. 

Natasha stares down at the happy piece of plastic in her lap and feels the muscles in her shoulders relax a fraction of an inch.

2\. 

“No,” says Natasha, as Clint pauses in front of a spinning display of magnets, each one bearing a name, the sketchy white outline of a mountain, and the word _Portland._

“What?” asks Clint, his tone all innocence, and gives the display a spin. He selects a magnet and holds it out to her with a flourish. _KRISTIN_ it says, which just happens to be her cover name on this job. “What’s the matter, baby, don’t you want one?”

She gives him a look that says she’d be removing vital organs for that choice endearment, save for the fact that it fits so very well with his own fake identity. Instead she turns and walks out of the shop, beckoning him with the crook of a finger over her shoulder.

The magnet doesn’t make another appearance until she’s coming home to her apartment two weeks later, arms laden with groceries. She goes to put away the double chocolate ice cream—she will not tell Clint he’s succeeded in getting her hooked--and there it is, staring defiantly back at her from the middle of the refrigerator door. 

Natasha momentarily considers ripping it down, throwing it into the trash or out the window to be crushed by the traffic on the street below. But she feels an unexpected little tug of affection for the ugly thing. And besides, the fact that he’s managed to smuggle it here without her knowing forces her to concede that he’s won this round.

 

3\. 

In Paris, she’s...distracted. 

They’ve spent the evening at a black tie gala that ended with one of Clint’s arrows through the mark’s eye socket. It would have been a flawless mission, save for microinjector full of sedatives the asshole managed to stick in her wrist before he died. 

“You sure you’re okay?” Clint asks for what feels like the hundredth time as she stumbles over her own feet on the way to their gate and narrowly avoids turning an ankle by catching hold of his shoulder. A few people nearby turn to look, but go back to their conversation a moment later. “That much ketamine would’ve dropped most people in an instant.”

Natasha shrugs, enjoying the wave of dizzy euphoria the drugs have caused, courtesy of her metabolic and immune enhancements. It feels vaguely like her head is floating somewhere near the ceiling, watching her body plodding along blindly below. It should be alarming, but she can’t seem to quell the waves of giddiness that keep bubbling up in the pit of her stomach, and she laughs breathlessly as Clint half-carries her up the jetway and onto the plane, his jaw set in a grim line. 

“I’m not most people,” she tells him, and he makes a frantic little gesture that probably means she’s talking too loudly. “I’m special. Don’t you know I’m special?”

She fumbles ineffectually with her seatbelt for a while before Clint swats her hands away and buckles it for her, which sets off a whole new wave of laughter. 

“Yes,” he says tolerantly. “You’re very, very special. Drink this.” He twists the cap off the bottle of water before giving it to her, as if she’s a small child who cannot be trusted with complicated pieces of plastic. 

Natasha takes the water from him and drinks quickly, her reflexes still good enough to keep her from spilling it. She finishes it in a few gulps, handing back the empty bottle triumphantly. “Do I win a prize? I think I should get a prize because I’m still awake.”

“Well,” says Clint, though he still looks foolishly concerned, “now that you mention it.” 

She doesn’t remember him stopping to shop, or leaving her side long enough to disappear at any point since they reached the airport. Still, her memories of the evening as a whole are growing increasingly fuzzy, and she’s not surprised when he pulls out the latest variation of airport shopping bag, removing his usual pack of candy before handing it to her. 

For once Natasha grabs the package enthusiastically, pulling out a plush Eiffel Tower. She grins at him for a moment before hugging the toy to her chest, enjoying the feel of the soft fur against her cheek. 

“Fucking hell,” Clint mutters. “That--That is the single most terrifying thing I have ever seen.”

“Good,” she says cheerfully. 

“What are you gonna name it?” asks Clint, apparently not too afraid to tempt her. “It definitely needs a name.”

“Maybe I’ll name it after you,” says Natasha, running a finger suggestively down the Tower’s side. “Clint Junior?”

“Already got one of those,” he says, staring pointedly at his lap.

She shrugs. “I like that one too.”

Clint chokes for a moment, but he recovers in time to look scandalized when she steals a handful of his candy. 

“I’m glad you like it,” he says bemusedly, wrapping a thin blanket and then his arm around her as she starts to shiver. “Now be good and sleep it off.”

“Killing you for that later,” says Natasha, and buries her face in his shoulder as she lets the rest of the world drift away. 

4\. 

Natasha is wearing the shirt when she wakes up in Medical, and there’s a smudge of blood on one of the sleeves that she thinks (hopes) is probably her own. “I <3 BUDAPEST” it shouts in bold, capital letters, the design reminding her of the New York shirts in the original shop. 

Clint is sitting by her bedside, looking every bit as rough as she feels but stubborn as always about following doctors’ orders. 

“What the hell happened to the shirt I was wearing before?” she asks, as if that’s really the most pertinent question in this situation. The last thing she remembers is running down a crowded street, the sound of gunfire at her back and a sharp pain through her left side. She doesn’t remember winning the fight, doesn’t remember making it to the airport at all, let alone having a chance to go shopping. 

Clint just shrugs and gives her one of his inscrutable little smiles as he kisses her knuckles where the skin’s still healing. “You really don’t want to know.”

5.

They make it all the way from Florence to Madrid--following a trail of intel--without the appearance of any of Clint’s customary souvenir atrocities. 

It ought to be a relief, Natasha thinks. Maybe after Budapest he’s lost his taste for cheap plastic and polyester, maybe she’s finally given him one exasperated look too many. Either way, it’s what she’s wanted, yet she can’t shake the feeling that something’s missing, that their usual routine is just a little off. The expectation makes her uneasy, and she decides not to think about it too terribly hard. 

“So,” she says, when they reach the safehouse with a few hours’ time to rest. “Didn’t you get me a horrible present this time?”

Clint cracks a grin and gives her an exaggerated waggle of his eyebrows, clearly thrilled that she’s finally asked. “Oh, baby. I _did._ ” 

She opens her mouth to tell him that this time she actually will hurt him for calling her _baby_ , no hint of a cover to hide behind this time. But he’s reaching for his belt buckle before she can find the words, dropping his pants to reveal what’s underneath. He’s wearing a pair of red-trimmed boxers, the middle of the crotch printed with the rather magnificent marble genitalia of a Renaissance statue. 

For a moment it’s all she can do to stare at the spectacle in silence, her stomach twisting with a mix of disgust and hysterical laughter. Natasha takes one breath, then another, counting off seconds as she arranges her face into the mask of careful neutrality she usually favors for beginning an interrogation. 

“Remarkable,” she says, her voice perfectly even, like she might be giving a briefing. “I’m amazed you managed to refrain from cutting a hole in the center to show me how you’re actually the second coming of David the statue boy.”

“Man,” Clint corrects. “Statue man. And that would be tasteless and crude.”

“Because marble dick boxers aren’t?” Natasha raises an eyebrow and takes a step closer, resting her hands on his hips.

“You know me.” He smiles sweetly. “Big, big art fan. Might even call me a connoiseur.”

Natasha nips his lower lip as she kisses him, and he groans. “You. Strip. Now.”

“Yes ma’am,” says Clint, giving her a cheeky little salute as he pulls his shirt over his head.

 

+1 

She decides to turn the tables in Sydney, when their extraction plan goes to hell and they’re forced to hop a commercial flight out. 

Natasha ducks into the little shop while Clint is held up in security, fretting about being made to check the case that holds his bow. It’s not the first time he’s had to go through the procedure, but he doesn’t ever seem to get less anxious about it. 

He’s uncharacteristically quiet as they board the plane, almost withdrawn as he sits looking down at his hands. 

“Hey,” she says quietly, when they’ve reached cruising altitude, the night sky a fathomless chasm outside the window.

“Hey,” Clint echoes distractedly, looking up when she touches his shoulder. 

“Take a breath. We’re going to make it.” She finds his hand and squeezes it quickly. “And look, I got you a present.” She pulls the candies from the bag first, for effect, watching how the lines around his eyes soften just a little. 

“What’s this?” he asks, looking genuinely surprised when she presses the bag--clearly not empty--into his palm. 

“Open it.”

He narrows his eyes at her as he does, as though he might actually be expecting something inside to bite him. The noise he makes when he pulls out the keychain--a pair of stuffed kangaroo testicles dangling from the ring--might be actual pain, she thinks. 

“I thought you could start a collection,” says Natasha, giving him her most serious look. “Testicle-themed souvenirs. The height of taste and culture.”

Clint throws his head back and laughs until he’s breathless, until she silences him with a kiss.


End file.
